


My Tears Are Becoming a Sea

by Lila82



Series: Catastrophe and the Cure [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-02 13:49:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2814218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lila82/pseuds/Lila82
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of Finn's death, Clarke confronts her monster.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Part I in my post-2x08 series, "Catastrophe and the Cure".

 

* * *

 

_“We’ve all got a monster inside of us, Clarke, and we’re all responsible for what it does when we let it out.”_  


  


Finn dies and takes a piece of Clarke with him.

It’s too much and nothing at all, the chill in the air and the slick slide of Finn’s blood, but mostly the hardness of the earth as Clarke sinks to her knees. She sinks even lower under the weight of their gazes, the stares of a thousand sets of eyes.

They surround her, scores of Grounders as numerous as the stars in the sky. Their eyes glitter brightly in the torchlight. Clarke reads their thoughts, sees all the things they want to say: _hero, princess, rebel, warrior_. 

Lexa extends a hand and Clarke takes it, rises shakily to her feet. If Lexa notices, she doesn’t mention it. Her people are still staring, but Clarke doesn’t notice because all she sees is the chalky smear of blood staining Lexa’s skin. To her credit, she doesn’t brush it away, not when she starts for Camp Jaha or beckons Clarke to follow.

“It’s never easy,” Lexa says softly as they approach the gate. Clarke can barely see her in the dim light of the torches, but she sees it all the same. Lexa’s expression doesn’t change but her eyes tell their own story. There’s strength there, guilt and regret; for a fraction of a second, Clarke doesn’t feel so alone.

“When can we have his body?” Clarke asks tiredly. She might have killed a man, but there are always things to do. 

“That’s not possible.”

“You can’t be serious,” Clarke says, ignores the desperate note in her voice. She’s already given so much; she can’t believe they want more.

Lexa’s mouth tightens. “He killed eighteen of my people. _Murdered_ them.” She glances back at the clearing where Finn is still bound to the post. Clarke keeps her eyes fixed on the gate so she doesn’t have to see the drip of Finn’s blood falling into dirt. “We’ll burn him,” Lexa says. “We don’t leave memorials for murderers.” Clarke watches mutely as Indra’s men cut Finn loose. “He will be safe,” Lexa says firmly and Clarke finally meets her gaze. Her eyes are soft, her smile sad, and Clarke realizes the promise she’s making: Lexa’s people won’t desecrate Finn’s body in death the way they would have destroyed it in life.

“Thank you,” Clarke manages to say and continues to the gate. There’s more to do – there’s always more to do – but just this time it needs to wait. 

Lexa catches her before she reaches the gate, fingers locking around Clarke’s wrist. She tugs lightly and Clarke turns, all those torches burning her eyes. Lexa opens Clarke’s hand and places a cool object into her palm. “We found it on him,” she says and Clarke glances down, gasps at how the two-headed deer glimmers in the moonlight. “You should have something to remember him by.” 

She releases Clarke’s wrist and starts for her people. Clarke’s fingers close around the tiny statue and she ignores how the sharp edges cut into her skin. There’s already so much blood on her hands – what's the harm in a little more? Clarke takes a deep breath before crossing the final steps to the gate, tucks the figurine into her pocket.

As if she could ever forget what happened this night.

 

* * *

 

They’re on her the moment she walks through the gate, her mother and Kane and half the survivors, crowding in and breathing her air. She thinks Bellamy would have joined them too if he wasn’t holding Raven back.

“Clarke, wait!” Abby calls as her daughter pushes through the crowd, but Clarke ignores her and heads for the wreckage of the Ark. There’s a low murmur of voices behind her, and then Abby’s grabbing her shoulder. “At least let me examine your hand.” 

Clarke glances down at the bloody mess of her hand. It’s drying, cracking into the lines of her palm, and she makes a fist to hide the evidence. “It’s not my blood,” she says and doesn’t recognize the flat tone of her voice. It’s the voice of a stranger, the voice of the person she’s become. 

“You shouldn’t be alone right now,” Abby pleads. 

Clarke scans the crowd, so many familiar faces and each one of them makes it harder to breathe. “Murphy can come,” she says and watches the collective widening of eyes as Murphy takes a step forward. Bellamy stops him for a moment, whispers something into his ear, and Clarke can’t hear him but the set of his jaw is telling enough. Murphy scowls as he walks to Clarke’s side.

“After you, princess,” he says, makes a sweeping gesture with his arm. 

The word sinks inside her, slices open every wound, but she just hardens her expression and glares daggers at Murphy. “Don’t call me that,” she says sharply and stalks towards the fallen wheel.

“Touché,” she hears Murphy whisper under his breath as he follows, but he doesn’t repeat the nickname as they settle side by side in the shadow of the once mighty Ark. “Why did you bring me?”

Clarke laces her fingers and rests them on her knees. “Right now, I don’t want to be around anyone I actually like.”

Murphy sighs as he rests his head against the thin metal skin. “I should be used to that by now.”

“You shot Raven,” Clarke reminds him. “You tried to hang Bellamy. We hate you for a reason.”

“But they don’t hate you,” Murphy says. “That’s why you really asked for me, right? You think we’re the same, but we’re not. No one will ever blame you for what happened to Finn.”

Clarke knows he’s right, but it doesn’t absolve the blame she holds against herself, any of the guilt she carries in her heart. “She’s on me,” she says softly. “Connor, Myles, they’re on you, but Charlotte’s on me. I’ve learned to live with that. I’ll live with this too.” 

Murphy’s silent for a long while, but his voice is firm when he finally speaks. “I’m sorry for what I said before. No one’s to blame but Finn. Maybe I could have tried harder, but he’s the one who pulled the trigger. That’s on him, not us.”

“Maybe, but it doesn’t excuse what I did.”

There’s another stretch of silence, then Murphy’s hand brushes over Clarke’s for the smallest of seconds. “You saved me, saved all of us. Focus on that.”

Clarke contemplates the sky. It’s the same as before she stuck a knife between Finn’s ribs, same as the night a little girl threw herself over a cliff. She knows it will be the same long after she’s paid for the things that she’s done.

 

* * *

 

Clarke opens her eyes to muted light seeping through the dirty fabric of her tent. She has a vague memory of walking back with Murphy the night before, his fingers a loose vise around her elbow as he guided her home. She’s tempted to pull the blanket over her head, hide away from all the things lurking outside.

Someone clears her throat and without looking Clarke knows it’s Raven, knows the sharp, pained noises that echoed through her head the night before.

Raven’s sitting in the lone chair, arms crossed and her feet tapping an incessant rhythm against the hard ground. She meets Clarke’s gaze as she swings herself out of bed, _traitor_ flashing clearly in her dark eyes.

“We had a deal,” she hisses, arms wrapped so tightly across her chest that Clarke wonders how she’s able to breathe. 

“I know,” is all Clarke can manage to say. She remembers, the vow she made and Raven’s scream when she broke that promise. 

“I trusted you,” Raven says, swipes angrily at her cheeks to brush away her tears. “You were supposed to save him and you killed him instead.”

“I know,” Clarke repeats. She’ll never forget that moment, the heavy weight of Finn’s head slumping into her shoulder, his blood seeping through her shirt all the way to her skin.

Raven pushes to her feet, takes a menacing step closer. “Is that all you’re going to say?”

“I had to,” Clarke defends herself. “There was no other way.”

Raven glares at her, bright tears gleaming in her eyes. She doesn’t brush them away this time, lets Clarke see her pain. “Don’t you ever get tired of doing the right thing?”

She’s gone before Clarke can respond and leaves a cloud of anger and regret in her wake. Clarke breathes it in, all the things she deserves, all the things she’s become. The sun is rising higher in the sky and she can hear the thunder of hooves at the gate. Lexa is here and there’s more work to do.

She takes a breath and steps out into the sunshine.

 

* * *

 

Raven’s words stay with her through the day. 

The meeting is mostly a formality and they make official declarations of collaboration. Clarke’s free by the afternoon and buries herself in medical work. The camp is prepping for winter and there’s a constant stream of minor injuries. She binds wounds and rubs salve on blisters and mostly marvels at how easily these people can go about their days. Twenty-four hours ago, they were calling for a boy’s death and now they’re gathering water and building cabins like they didn’t watch him die in half that time.

They watch her with wary eyes, and she notices more than one choose Abby’s line even though it’s twice as long. Mel shows up needing a splint and smiles sympathetically as Clarke winds tape around her ring finger. 

“It was really brave what you did.”

Clarke nods, tears away the tape with a snap. If she’s hurt her, Mel doesn’t let it show. 

“Thank you,” Mel says as she pushes to her feet and it’s that same smile again. It makes Clarke want to slam her fist into Mel’s kind face. She might have saved her people but she doesn't want their pity. 

“I hope you never have to make the same choice.”

Mel’s face falls but Clarke keeps her expression neutral, her eyes hard. The girl flees and doesn’t look back. She keeps the same look on her face as she turns to the waiting patients and her line dissipates without her saying a word.

It’s the same as she steps into the growing darkness and she keeps her back straight against the eyes pressing in around her. She’s done with always doing what’s right.

 

* * *

 

Bellamy’s already there when she pushes into his tent, throws aside the flap and doesn't announce her arrival.

She finds him cleaning his gun and he puts it down slowly as she steps inside, the same wary expression in his eyes. It makes her hate him just the tiniest bit. 

“How are you feeling?” he asks softly, eyes never leaving her face. 

If she looked closer she might have seen more than sympathy in his eyes, respect and awe there too, but she doesn’t look into his eyes as she throws herself against his hard chest.

Bellamy’s lips are softer than Finn’s but his jaw is scratchier, and she ignores how different he feels. She didn’t come here to remember; she came here to forget.

For half a minute, Bellamy responds, his mouth fluttering under hers, but then he’s pulling away, hands pressing firmly into her shoulders. His chest heaves slightly; he can’t hide that.

“Clarke, what are you doing?” He’s got that look in his eye, the one she’s seen a hundred times before, and she knows there’s no changing his mind. 

It doesn’t stop her from reaching for him again, a burst of anger blooming through her chest when he takes a step back. “What is your problem?” she hisses, runs frustrated fingers through her hair. She remembers the different girls leaving his tent each morning, two at the same time the night Raven fell to earth – she can’t believe he’s turning her down.

“What’s yours?” he demands. He crosses his arms over his chest, dares her to try again.

She contemplates it, but the fight quickly goes out. She came here for things to be easy. “Never mind,” she says. “Forget this ever happened.” She tries to slip past him but he’s faster, quick and assured as ever, and his fingers wrap around her arm. He quirks her chin with his other hand and forces her to meet his eyes. All she sees is curiosity and she stops struggling against him.

“I’m tired of doing the right thing,” she confesses and something hard flickers in his eyes. 

“So you came to me.” It’s not a question and he keeps his voice flat, but Clarke knows it bothers him. 

“You’ve never discriminated before.” Anger flares in his eyes this time and his fingers tighten around her arm. “Don’t you want me?”

His mouth relaxes and his hands drop to his sides. “Clarke,” he says softly, that deep voice washing over her. “It shouldn’t be like this.” 

“You don’t get to tell me what to do,” she snaps. She’s so tired of living by the rules, doing what she knows needs to be done. She just wanted this one thing for herself.

Bellamy changes his tactic. “It's not about you,” he snaps back. “It’s about me and what I want. I get why you’re here.” He pauses, and some of the malice leaves his voice. “I’ve been here too and I learned something from it. You should want me when you’re happy, not just when you’re sad.”

She stares at him, wonders which alternate reality he's living in. “Look around,” she says and gestures wildly at what they’re calling home, flimsy tents and muddy earth and the enemy creeping in from all corners. “There’s no such thing as happy in this place.”

Bellamy just smiles at her, reaches out to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. “You taught me something, Princess. One day, there will be more than this.”

It’s that nickname again, the last word Finn ever said coming from Bellamy’s mouth, and it’s what does her in, and despite her efforts, her chin wobbles and she feels tears pooling in her eyes. He silently gathers her in his arms and she crumbles against his chest.

He doesn’t tell her that it will be okay or that she did the right thing, just rubs slow circles across her back and lets his shirt catch her tears. She loses herself a bit in the muscled planes of his chest and the gentle motions of his hands; for a fraction of a second, she forgets why she’s there. 

She takes it even though it’s more than she deserves.


	2. Chapter 2

 

* * *

 

Raven’s anger becomes a living thing.

It grows arms and legs, it breathes fire and screams pain, and it seethes and rages and spews wrath every time she’s in Clarke’s space.

Clarke just bows her head and takes it. She already knows what happens when she lets her monster out.

 

* * *

 

There’s a head injury to consider as well. 

Clarke doesn’t have a concussion, but there’s a lingering pounding in her head that only intensifies when she passes out in Bellamy’s arms. She sleeps away most of the afternoon but he’s still there when she opens her eyes. 

He’s watching her intently, like that night at the campfire, and the furrow in his brow is exactly the same. “Welcome back.”

“What happened?” she asks and rubs at her forehead. 

“You passed out. Something to do with that blow you took at the dropship.”

Clarke sits up and regrets it. Her head only hurts more, but it’s a good distraction from thinking about the dropship. “There’s no such thing as a delayed concussion.” She starts to get out of bed, but Bellamy’s faster, and his hand is gentle but firm as it comes to rest on her shoulder. Clarke ignores the pain in her head and pushes back. “I need – ”

“You need to take a minute,” Bellamy interrupts. He’s using that voice, the one from _whatever the hell we want_ and Clarke knows better than to keep fighting. 

“Our people – ” she tries again.

“Our people are safe because of you.” 

There’s a challenging tilt to his chin, but Clarke doesn’t back down. She needs him to understand even if he can never support the choices she’s made. “Not all of them.”

For the first time in maybe ever, Bellamy is at a loss for words. “Clarke…” he starts, but she cuts him off.

“I killed him, Bellamy. I told him that I loved him and stuck a knife into his heart.” Bellamy’s jaw ticks, but he doesn’t respond and Clarke doesn't stop. “Yes, our people are safe. Yes, the alliance will help us get the rest of the hundred out of Mount Weather.” She pauses, gathers her courage. “But I killed _Finn_. I killed one of us.” 

Bellamy moves his hand, slides it across the ratty sheet so his pinky finger brushes against her thumb. “What can I do?”

“I can’t be here,” she says and finishes getting out of bed. She needs to be useful. 

Bellamy’s brow furrows again. “You have a head injury, Clarke – ”

“Just the med-bay,” she says and bends to tie her boots. It proves to be too much and she can’t hide the rush of pain to the space behind her eyes. 

He doesn’t ask if she’s okay, just hops off the cot and expertly knots her laces. “Just the med-bay, and someone walks you home.” 

“Fine,” she agrees even though she’s perfectly capable of getting back to her tent by herself. But her body is humming with the need to do something, anything but sit in this bed and talk with a handsome boy. 

Bellamy rises to his feet and extends a hand. “Ready?” 

Clarke takes his hand, lets him pull her weight. When he leaves her at the med-bay, she doesn’t want to let him go.

 

* * *

 

She hides from Abby. 

Medical has its usual stream of minor injuries, and a few serious ones, as they add roofs to the cabins. The staff is swamped and Clarke is grateful. The worried sweep of her mother’s eyes makes her skin crawl and her head hurt even worse. She’s never been a normal kid and now there’s nothing left of the girl she once was. She can’t stomach Abby trying to put her back in that box. 

Her mother is with a patient when Clarke steps quietly into the med-bay, so she sneaks into the supply closet with her map. She traces the routes with fingers and eyes, labels air ducts and heating vents and preps for the next day’s meeting. They start formal training in the morning and knowledge is her weapon. 

She needs her sacrifice to be worth something.

 

* * *

 

“I like to scream,” Wick tells her.

Clarke looks up from the diagram she’s examining. Raven has devised some kind of silencer for their rifles and since they’re not speaking, Wick’s delivering the specs. “What?”

“Keep clenching your jaw like that and you won’t have any teeth. Which'll be rough since all we eat is overcooked deer.” There’s a pause. “I hope it’s deer.”

“What do you want, Wick?” There’s still a mission plan to review; she doesn’t have time for his games.

“They floated my dad,” Wick says. His voice is solid and firm but the revelation is enough for Clarke to push aside the drawing.

“I’m sorry for your loss. They floated my dad too. I know how much it sucks.”

“I didn’t know how to handle it. I was afraid that if I talked about it, they’d float me too.” Clarke nods, remembers the long year she spent in a sky cell for the crime of knowing a secret. “Screaming helped. For that one moment, I was in control. It was something the Ark couldn’t take from me.” He picks up the report with Clarke’s notes and skips out the door before she can respond. “Later, warrior.”

Clarke shakes him off and turns back to her work. There are maps to draw and medical supplies to inventory, but a tickle bubbles into her mouth. She clears her throat and returns to her list, but she can’t catch her breath. Her chest burns and her lungs ache and there’s too much noise in her head.

She bolts from the tent and quickly scans the camp. There’s a water barrel ten feet away and she pries the lid off before she can blink. The water is cool against her cheeks but it’s even better when she opens her mouth and screams. 

She screams and screams until her throat is raw and there’s water in her nose and black spots spin before her eyes. She screams because it’s all she has, because Finn killed eighteen people and she killed him and there’s nowhere else for her to go.  
Strong hands grip her shoulders and a guard is pulling her back, flinging water everywhere as her hair whips around her face. In the distance, she can hear someone calling for her mother. “Are you okay?”

She almost laughs, because the question is absurd, but she also dunked her head into a barrel of drinking water. “I’m fine,” she says and shrugs off his hands before Abby can push through the crowd, turns a corner and disappears behind the electrical shed.

Later that day, when her hair is dry and neatly pulled back from her face, she catches Wick’s eye across camp. He nods his head and she nods back. 

For one moment, she had something that was just hers.

 

* * *

 

That night, a harvest moon rises red and bleeding in the inky sky.

Her people stand in awe at its feet, marvel at the richness of its colors, the brilliance of its light. One little girl stretches her fingers high and tries to feel it against her skin.

Clarke’s seen these moons before, through the dirty plastic windows of the Ark, and she thinks it would be beautiful if not for how it reminds her of Finn on the post, the torchlight glowing red and warm around him. 

She storms away from the crowd and heads for Raven’s gate, slips easily through the bent wires. She’s not sure what she’s looking for, only that she needs to get away. There are too many voices in the camp, too many eyes, and her mother is never more than a step away.

Clarke’s careful as she treads to the peak of a high hill that overlooks the Grounder camp: the place where Finn died, the place where she took his life. She’s surprised to find Octavia sitting in the dirt, knees tucked under her chin while she watches the sway of the torches. “Hey, Clarke.”

Clarke slumps onto the ground beside her and stretches her legs. “I haven’t seen you out of the med-bay in days.”

Octavia tilts her head back so the night wind washes over her cheeks. “Lincoln’s people call it a blood moon. He wanted me to see one for myself.”

It’s a fitting name. There’s blood on Clarke’s hands and blood on her clothes and blood staining the rich, dark earth. It's no surprise when a living reminder arcs through the inky blue sky. “How apropos,” Clarke says and digs at loose rock poking her thigh. She doesn’t check to see how Octavia’s reacted to the bite of her words.

A minute passes and all Clarke hears is the rustle of the wind and an owl’s distant call. The earth remains the same even as it takes, takes, takes the things she loves away. 

“It’s okay to hate him.”

Clarke’s head whips around, but Octavia’s still got her chin titled towards the sky. Her skin is bathed in red, a ghostly film painting her cheeks. “What?”

“It’s okay to hate him,” Octavia repeats. “I did.”

Clarke keeps staring at Octavia and tries to put the pieces together. Octavia’s never killed anyone, only fought tooth and nail for the people she loves. Clarke’s seen firsthand how she’s been loved in return, the bruising power of a brother’s love, and then it clicks into place. “You’re talking about Bellamy.”

“I was so angry at him for getting our mom floated, for getting me locked up. It’s why I hadn’t seen him in a year when the dropship landed. He wanted to visit but I kept sending him away. Eventually he stopped trying.”

Clarke remembers a night of storytelling and a girl by the fire looking impossibly young. They’d been trading tales of how they ended up on the ground, and some were funny while others were horrifying, but Clarke remembers Octavia’s story as particularly sad. Bellamy did something good and it blew their lives apart. “He brought you to that dance, right?”

There’s a long pause and Octavia’s voice shakes when she speaks again. “For a long time, I blamed him. He told me about the dance, he brought me the mask, he promised to keep me safe. Maybe he shouldn’t have done those things, but _I_ chose to go.” She turns to Clarke, her blue eyes blazing and bold in the moonlight. “It took me a year in that cell to realize it wasn’t Bell that I hated. It was me.”

“And now?”

“Some days are better than others.”

There’s another long pause and Clarke’s voice is very small when she speaks again. “He loved me. He did it because he loves me.”

Octavia’s expression is fierce and Clarke sees nothing of that girl by the fire. She grabs Clarke’s wrist, digs in her nails deep enough to draw blood. “If he truly loved you, he wouldn’t have put those things on you. You don’t owe him anything.” 

Clarke stays on the hill long after Octavia returns to the man _she_ loves, eyes fixed on the blurry line of the post. Even if she forgives Finn, she’s not sure that she’ll ever forgive herself.

 

* * *

 

“You can talk to me,” Bellamy says the next morning while they review the agenda for Clarke’s meeting with the Grounders. 

Clarke can feel his eyes on her face but she keeps hers focused on the active guard roster. “I don’t think you want to hear anything I have to say.” 

“You deserve to grieve.”

She finally looks up, grasps his chin tightly between her fingers and turns his face towards hers. He's a hair's breadth away, so close she can see the rings of gold in his irises and every freckle dotting his cheeks. He’s so close that he’s breathing her air. “We’re at war, Bellamy. That’s all there is.” 

Bellamy’s jaw tightens again but his expression remains calm. Slowly, he pries each finger from his chin and twists their hands so they lock together. “I’m here. I just wanted you to know.” 

He drops her hand and turns back to the map, and when their shoulders brush, neither moves away. Clarke lets herself lean on him just the tiniest bit.

 

* * *

 

They call her the Angel of Death.

She hears the murmurs as she treads through the Grounder camp for another meeting with Lexa. Her knowledge of their language is still a work in progress, and she doesn’t know what they’re saying.

 _Mallo Coni_ they whisper as Indra nods to her outside Lexa’s tent, opens the flap and follows her inside. _Mallo Coni_ , the guards say and bow their heads.

Lexa’s brow furrows as she directs Clarke to her seat. “Thank you for coming,” Lexa says like Clarke has a choice, like she hasn’t been sitting in this tent every morning for the past week. 

Clarke nods. “Let’s get down to business.” 

They’ve already worked out their strategy and Kane and Bellamy are currently training their combined army with Lexa’s generals, so they discuss the final details of the plan: Clarke explains the hand-held radios Raven and Wick are making and Lexa confirms that all Ark fighters will have Grounder uniforms. In just a few days, they’ll be ready to attack.

Nyko steps inside to share a medical update and greets Lexa and Indra. He glances at Clarke, mutters _Mallo Coni_ under his breath. Clarke listens to him rattle off the herbs they’ll need for mobile med-kits, waits for him to leave before asking for clarification.

“ _Mallo Coni_ ,” she asks. “What does it mean?”

Indra and Lexa share a look, and it’s the second-in-command who provides the answer. Her face is haughty beneath the tattoos, but there’s admiration in her eyes. She doesn’t break Clarke’s gaze as she explains. “Our people call you “Angel of Death” as a sign of respect.”

Lexa clarifies. “It’s a great honor.”

Clarke swallows hard, tries to keep the horror from showing on her face. She knows that name; in her history books, he helped murder thirteen million people. She's only killed one boy but she’s not sure that she doesn’t deserve it. “There’s nothing honorable about what I did.”

Again, Lexa and Indra exchange a look. “You’re of the sky,” Indra says. “You don’t know the earth, the things it requires of us.” 

Clarke shakes her head and stands up, effectively ending the meeting. She remembers Bellamy in the tent, the hope in his voice when he talked of a better world, glances at the determined women at the table. 

She knows better than to dream.

 

* * *

 

She checks on Lincoln en route to medical for her afternoon rounds. He’s no longer restrained, but still contained in the med-bay until his detox is complete. Clarke checks his temperature and tests his reflexes, asks questions about the nausea and shakes. 

Abby stops by once and presses a gentle kiss to the crown of her daughter’s head. “I love you, honey,” she says and Clarke does her best not to flinch. No matter how hard Abby tries, she can’t make this better. She can’t love away what her daughter’s done.

Lincoln is watching Clarke when Abby leaves and she feels the pressure of his scrutiny. “What?” she asks and glances down. Octavia got most of the blood out of her shirt and repaired the rip. She doesn't know what's caught his attention.

“Come with me,” he says and pushes to his feet. He’s a bit unsteady but Clarke doesn’t offer her help. She can still feel the press of Abby’s kiss; she knows what it’s like to be coddled.

Clarke also knows it’s a bad idea. She likes Lincoln, but trust is a different story. He advocated for Finn’s execution and he doesn’t carry her guilt. But she’s made few choices in the last week that were right, or good, or made it easier to breathe. Lincoln’s eyes are kind even if his expression is blank and she decides to take a chance. Maybe she’ll be wrong and he’ll kill her, take away this pain the way she stole Finn’s life. 

He doesn’t kill her. Instead, he leads her to the perimeter of camp and hands her a wooden staff. “What are we doing?” she asks, watches him shakily pick up his own stick. 

A hint of a smile curves his mouth. “You’re going to learn to fight.”

Clarke’s grip tightens around her makeshift bō. “You’re on.”

 

* * *

 

As it turns out, her fight with Anya was a fluke. Clark chalks it up to survival instinct because Lincoln can barely stand and he has her flat on her back the first time she swings the bō. 

“Get up,” he says and rests heavily on one foot. He’s also sweating more than necessary, but he doesn’t give up. “Try again.”

Lincoln demonstrates the move and Clarke imitates it once, twice, so many times that her muscles burn and she wonders if she’ll be able to hold a fork the next day. But she doesn’t stop, doesn’t quit. She pushes and pushes until they’re both standing on wobbly legs and Lincoln’s clinging to a sapling for support. 

“You fought well,” he says and Clarke shrugs but accepts the bottle of water he offers. “Thank you for sparring with me.”

A hint of a smile curves Clarke’s mouth. “I should be thanking you.”

It’s Lincoln’s turn to shrug. “I need to regain my strength.”

“You could have asked Octavia. I don’t know how you managed this when she doesn’t let you out of her sight.” She pauses, screws the cap back on the water bottle. “You knew I needed to get away. That’s why you did it.”

“Do you feel better?”

The sweat is drying on her skin and she’s found her breath, the raspy rush of adrenaline easing out of her lungs. It’s getting dark and she’s skipped her rounds. She knows better than to try outrunning her responsibilities. “I wish that I did.”

Lincoln takes her hand in his and looks at her with eyes that hold only understanding. “For what it’s worth, Finn _was_ my friend.”

His words bring her no comfort and she tears her hands away, picks up the bō and knocks out his legs, knocks him flat on his back and slams it into to his throat. “Don’t say his name.”

Lincoln watches her calmly, too calmly with the bō pressed to his windpipe and cutting off his air, but he doesn’t push back. “ _Mallo Bahl_ ,” he whispers, keeps watching her with those calm, dark eyes. “Angel of Mercy.”

Clarke drops the bō and staggers through the grass, falls back on her hands and stares at Lincoln with wide eyes. “Oh my god.”

Lincoln sits beside her to catch his breath. “You gave him peace.” His voice is hoarse and it makes her wince.

“I still killed him.”

“You knew what would have happened if you hadn’t.”

Clarke feels the shudder all the way to her toes: hands, tongue, eyes, knives, swords, _fire_. She knows she did right by Finn, but there should have been another way. “He killed eighteen people, but he didn’t have to die too.” She sucks in a breath and it gives her strength. “When will there stop being so much death?”

“If death has no cost, life has no worth. It’s how we live.” There’s no pride in his voice, but rather a hollow defeat. It’s all he knows, all they _both_ know, but Clarke thinks they can do better. 

“We need to be different,” Clarke says. She doesn’t know how, but she knows it all the same.

“My people believe in you,” Lincoln tells her. “What you did has never been done before.”

“Murdered my friend?”

“Took his life by your own hand.” His voice is firm and his eyes are steady. “ _Mallo Bahl_ ,” he says again. “May you bring mercy to us all.”

Clarke blinks back tears. Once she was death, destroyer of worlds, but now she thinks she can be something new. Something worth fighting for; something worth _living_ for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the support for this fic. I’m enjoying writing it and I’m glad you’re enjoying reading it. All Grounder words are mine and feel free to borrow them because they are totally made up and meaningless in real life. fTitle courtesy of M83. Enjoy.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Spoiler Warning:** This fic references the promos for 2x09, which I know some people consider a spoiler. You've been warned. Proceed at your own risk.

 

* * *

 

Two weeks pass and her people are still trapped in the mountain.

Clarke dreams of them, their bright smiles and glowing skin, clean clothes and fresh-scrubbed faces, legs and arms plump from added weight. She sees them happy and alive, laughing in the depths of the mountain. 

The dream shifts and it’s a different room, a different scene. Jasper hangs by his ankles and Tsing is smirking as his blood drips, drips, drips away. Clarke reaches for him, her knife clenched within a shaking fist, and he smiles weakly as the knife slides easily through layers of skin and bone. “Thanks, Princess,” he says through a bloody smile. 

Clarke wakes up gasping for breath, hands pressed hard over the furious beat of her heart. She stares at them in horror, searches for blood in the faint light. Her hands are clean but her soul is heavy and she can’t catch her breath even as her heart stops thudding in her chest. Sleep feels increasingly far away so she tugs on her jacket and laces up her boots and steps out of the quarters she now shares with her mother. 

She finds Bellamy by the gate, back straight and rifle cocked, and they’re technically at peace but she knows he’ll never stand down until all their people are safe behind the wall. 

He turns as she approaches, and in the warm glow of Grounder torches, he looks very young. When he smiles, he almost looks happy. “Rough night?”

Clarke grips the gate and peers through the slats. Even from this distance, she can feel them watching. They’re technically at peace, but trust is a tough bridge to rebuild. 

She’s silent a long time and Bellamy turns back to his post, peers through the rifle’s scope and looks for movement in the trees. It’s reassuring to know he’s always watching too. “What if we don’t get them back?” she finally says and it takes her a moment to recognize the voice as her own. It’s soft and broken and too much like the Clarke she used to know.

He pauses a beat before responding, but when he does Clarke lets out a breath she didn’t know that she was holding because he heard the words she couldn’t say. “We keep fighting.” His voice is strong and firm and doesn’t waver. He lowers the rifle and grasps her hand so their palms mesh and she can feel the promise in his heartbeat: _we won’t stop trying, we’ll make Finn’s death matter._

Bellamy returns to the watch and Clarke settles in beside him. She glances his way just once, takes in the hard line of his profile and the determination in his eyes. 

It feels like she can do anything so long as he’s by her side.

 

* * *

 

The mission date creeps closer and everyone has something to say about it.

Abby is technically chancellor and she demands a recap the moment her daughter walks through the gate. Clarke understands it must be frustrating, to wear the pin but hold only a fraction of the power, so she dully rattles off numbers and names and thinks of Lexa.

Her counterpart is also a girl, at most a few years past eighteen, but every Grounder would lay down their lives for her. Clarke imitates her voice, her posture and her tone. She leaves no room for discussion. 

“We leave in two days,” Clarke reports and her mother’s face falls. 

“I need to discuss this with the Council,” Abby says but Clarke shakes her head. The councilors are well-intentioned people who know nothing of the world they inhabit; they still don’t understand how drastically their lives have changed. There’s no time to discuss and consider; she needs to act.

Clarke channels Lexa as she stares up at her mother. “The decision isn’t up to you.”

“I’m still the Chancellor.”

“Mom,” Clarke sighs. She hates fighting with her mother, hates any interaction that rips open a wound and makes her feel. She has enough on her plate without her father’s ghost making a reappearance. “We need them to rescue our people. The Commander and I came to this agreement and we need to stand by it.” She pauses, lets some of Lexa’s steel gleam in her eyes. “You’re either with me or against me.”

Tears well in Abby’s eyes. “I know you hate when I say it, but you’re just a kid. Clarke, all this shouldn’t be on you.”

Clarke's quiet a moment, long enough for Jake to slide between them. “You knew it would be,” she says. “You told me that I was like dad, that I’d take care of everybody else.” She meets Abby’s gaze and a tear slips down her mom’s cheek. “You told me not to, but you knew I’d do it anyway. This is me taking care of my people.” She takes a step forward, gathers Abby’s hands between her own. “I’ll ask you again. Are you with me?” 

Abby’s eyes are watery, but her grip is firm. “What do you need?”

It’s a start.

 

* * *

 

Jaha has an opinion too.

He’s still confined to the brig and Clarke stops by once a day to check his wrists. She holds up a lantern and inspects the chaffed skin. It’s healing nicely and if he’s lucky, there’ll be minimal damage.

He watches her while she works, with dark eyes that are so much like Wells’. He’s aged since they landed and his beard is almost entirely white. It’s strange to see him like this, hard to endure the weight of Wells’ gaze. She quickly rubs salve on the wounds and reaches for the roll of bandages.

“You’re stronger than I anticipated,” Jaha says and it’s the same deep, commanding voice of her youth. For half a second, she’s back on the Ark and she trusts in the adults that decide the course of her life. She almost believes the words that he says.

“I didn’t have a choice,” she says as she ties off the bandage and inspects his other wrist. The welts are rawer and she adds more salve before applying the bandage.

Jaha is silent as he rubs his jaw with his free hand, and the only sound is his fingers scratching at his beard. “I wanted to die during the Culling,” he finally says, and it’s not what Clarke thought he’d say, but she doesn’t let her hands still. He’s the man who killed her father, the man who sent her to die. She doesn’t want to be with him any longer than necessary. “If I sent three hundred twenty people to die, I thought I should go with them. It seemed like the right thing.”

He rests his fingers against her wrist until she meets his eyes. She spent half her life under his watch. Laughed with him, cried before him, loved his son like a brother. She can’t look away from seeing the life she misses in his face. “What you did was right. You didn’t walk away from a challenge. You found another way.”

It makes Clarke laugh, the kind of laugh that lacks any humor. “I killed someone that I love.”

Jaha’s fingers tighten around her wrist. “I was wrong about your father and I was wrong about you too. I can’t bring Jake back, but I can give you my loyalty. Whatever you need, I’ll support you.” He pauses and Clarke should hate him but the sadness in his eyes makes her gasp. “I’m so sorry for the pain I’ve caused you. I should have believed in you the way my son always did.”

It doesn’t heal her wounds, or bring her father back, but it’s surprisingly easy to let go of the anger. She didn’t realize how heavy it was until it fades away. “I forgive you,” Clarke says. “Finn wanted to be better and that’s what we’re going to do.” 

Jaha smiles and all she sees is Wells. She couldn’t save him, couldn’t save Finn, but she’ll fight for this new world until her last breath.

 

* * *

 

There’s a feast before the mission launches.

Clarke doesn’t feel much like celebrating, but there’s no other option. They need the Grounders to make the mission a success, even if it means abiding by weird Grounder traditions.

On the Ark, a party held little pomp and circumstance. They wore the same clothes, ate the same food, and if not for the masks and music, it would have been like any other day. The Grounders take celebrations seriously and there are streamers looped through their hastily erected fence and flags waving in the wind from atop every tent. Clarke mostly keeps her eyes focused on Bellamy’s back so she doesn’t have to look at the post where she ended Finn’s life, or the ring of his blood that stains the grass.

It’s a small party from Camp Jaha, just Clarke and Bellamy, Kane and Raven. Clarke hadn’t wanted to bring the latter, but Lexa had insisted; her weapons chief wanted to talk shop with the Sky People’s best mechanic.

For all the Grounder’s emphasis on ritual, the feast is a simple event. Lexa thanks the Sky People for joining, toasts the alliance between their forces. She holds up her goblet and waits patiently as Gustus takes a sip; her calm expression twists into something furious when he falls face first into his plate.

“Traitor,” Indra hisses. Within seconds, her spear is digging into Clarke’s throat. 

“We didn’t do this,” Clarke insists as Gustus convulses, white foam leaking from his open mouth. “It wasn’t us.”

Lexa won’t look at her as she orders her guards to take them away. Clarke feels her new world crumbling to ash.

 

* * *

 

She’s locked up with Kane. They’re taken to a tent and forcibly patted down. Clarke finds the exercise tiresome – they were stripped of weapons at the gate – but she doesn’t want to enrage Lexa further. It’s four of them against an entire army. She grits her teeth and ignores the Grounder running his hand up and down her legs.

They’re tied to the center pole, hands bound behind their backs, and Clarke can feel the scratchy fabric of Kane’s jacket against her fingers. She doesn’t know what happened to Bellamy and Raven. She’s the Sky People’s leader, and Kane’s their top general. She hopes Lexa also sees the value in her friends.

Clarke also isn’t willing to find out. She tests her bindings and kicks out with her feet, but the Grounders have done this before. She’s not going anywhere without their say so.

“You’re only going to hurt yourself,” Kane says. “Escape isn’t an option.”

Clarke twists around, tries to see his face. She can make out some of his profile, a Lexa-sized handprint splashed across his cheek. “Got to know the Commander, right?” She stops fighting, but keeps scanning the tent for something useful.

“She’ll see that it wasn’t us. Just give her time.”

They don’t have time. It’s not just Bellamy and Raven. It’s Jasper’s goofy grin and Monty’s enduring loyalty. She even wants to see Miller’s stoic face again. She won’t have that without Lexa’s help. “We’ve come too far for it to fall apart.”

“I have faith.”

Clarke scans her brain for what she can remember of Kane. Mostly that he was an asshole, but that he also grew up in the Cult of the Eden Tree. “Because we came to earth. You grew up believing that we’d return.” He doesn’t respond and Clarke remembers learning of the attack on the Ark, remembers the he also lost someone that he loved. “I’m sorry about your mother.”

“I am too,” he says softly, waits a beat and then continues. “I gave up on religion a long time ago, but I’m not sure that it ever left me. People change. My entire adult life, there was nothing more important than preserving the human race. I put a woman out an airlock for having a second child.” He pauses, sucks in a breath. “Where’s the crime in that?”

“Population control,” Clarke whispers, matching Blake smiles flashing before her eyes.

“Population control,” Kane repeats. “If one person did it, so would everyone else, and it would have been the end of humanity. But I was wrong,” he says and Clarke can’t see him but she can hear the way his voice breaks. “What you did, the world you’re building…it’s going to save us all.”

“Not if we don’t get out of here,” Clarke points out, tugs at the ropes again. 

Kane laughs, and when he speaks again, it’s the calm, even voice of the Ark’s security chief. “I’m betting on you.”

Clarke rests her head against the pole and prays that he’s right. There’s only so many times that they can beat the odds.

 

* * *

 

The culprit is a young mother who lost her son in Finn’s massacre. 

They find out the truth when Indra and her team cut their bonds, haul them to their feet, and drag them out of the tent. They’re pushed to their knees and Clarke blinks for a moment, searching for Lexa’s face in the crowd, before she notices Bellamy slumped in the dirt. He’s bleeding from a head wound, more blood caked in his hair, and her heart jumps in her chest as she runs towards him. 

She can’t lose anyone else, not Bellamy, not like this. Her hand shakes as she pushes his hair back from his brow. “Bellamy!” She doesn’t care about the fear in her voice, or how it breaks as she says his name. All she wants is for him to open his eyes. He _needs_ to open his eyes.

“Hey Princess,” he says softy and for the first time since Finn died, the nickname doesn’t gouge a hole into her heart. It feels warm and familiar. It wraps her in its arms and soothes away the fear. 

She lets out a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob, blinks down at him as he gingerly rubs his head. “That’s gonna scar.”

He kind of rolls his eyes before reaching up and brushing her hair back from her forehead. There’s a bump there too, a curved crescent of a scar that Anya’s rock etched into her skin. “I guess we’ll match.” 

She manages a nod because she can’t talk past the knot in her throat. He smiles at her and it might be the best thing she’s ever seen.

 

* * *

 

Their new world starts with Mira.

Lexa apologizes briefly for detaining them, but not accusing them. Indra stands at her side, her face dark with rage beneath her tattoos. Mira was of her village; this is on her.

“You’re free to go,” Lexa tells them and Raven starts slowly for the gate. She was their prime suspect and has more than a head wound for her trouble.

“Wait!” Clarke calls out, carefully watching Kane help Bellamy stand. He's woozy and probably has a concussion, but otherwise seems fine. “What will you do with her?”

Lexa and Indra turn as one, and the look Indra sends them holds nothing but disgust. “She tried to kill the Commander,” Indra says. “She will pay with her life.”

It’s the answer she expected, but it still makes something burn in Clarke’s chest. Another crime, another person dies. Rinse, watch, repeat. Her people fell from the sky; the Grounders survived a nuclear war; and still, nothing ever changes.

“Not this time,” Clarke says, watches Indra’s lip curl and Lexa’s eyebrows raise in surprise. “We did it your way once. I’d like to do it mine this time.”

Indra reaches for the spear, but Lexa places a hand on her arm. Clarke can see the indecision in her eyes. Grounder justice is vicious, but she needs the Sky People to reclaim her own. “Say your piece.” 

Clarke takes a step forward, scans the crowd. “ _Mallo Coni_ ,” they whisper but the hatred is gone from their eyes. They’re mostly curious about what she’s proposing.

“She committed a horrible crime,” Clarke agrees. “She lost her son. She was mourning.” She pauses, pushes away the final vestiges of her own grief. She did what was best for Finn. There’s nothing left but making it sure it never happens again. “She deserves to live.”

Lexa smiles that familiar sad smile. “Blood must have blood. It is our way.”

“But there was no blood.” 

Indra still looks annoyed, but Clarke can see the change in Lexa’s eyes. There’s relief there, a way out. “What do you propose?”

Clarke shifts her eyes to the offender, a slight woman with long dark hair. On her knees and with her head bowed, she looks strikingly like Raven. It makes the choice easier. “You don’t trust her here, so we’ll take her with us,” Clarke says. The woman doesn’t say anything in return, but she shivers violently. “You cast her out and we take her in. We help her atone for what she did.”

Lexa nods her head just once. “She is your responsibility now. We will never lay eyes on her again.” The woman wails and the crowd growls in their own language, but Lexa holds up a hand and the din dies down. “It is done,” she says and holds her head up high as she walks to her tent.

Clarke extends a hand. “What’s your name?” 

“Mira,” the woman whispers as Clarke takes her hand and helps her to her feet. “ _Mallo Bahl_ ,” she whispers. “Please be merciful.”

Clarke smiles, feels the weight lift from her chest. This is what Finn wanted. This is the world he’d hoped for, the world Bellamy promised to her. This is what her world can finally be.

 

* * *

 

For the most part, Mira takes well to Camp Jaha. 

She’s skittish and wary, not unlike the rabbits they saw once on a hunting trip, but she settles in with calm acceptance. She’s been exiled from her people, but offered the chance at something new. She doesn’t turn it down and Clarke likes her already.

She takes quickly to the orphans, and she doesn’t adopt them so much as find a place amongst them. There are ten of them, lost children whose parents died in the crash, or on other stations, or in the case of an underweight redhead, in the Culling. Mira is new to them, a distraction from their loss, and Mira finds comfort in their sticky hands and silly faces. It won’t replace her son, or their parents, but Clarke hopes it will help heal their wounds.

“You did good,” Abby says as she comes up behind her daughter. She’s wiping blood from her hands and it makes Clarke’s heart clench. 

“Is Bellamy okay?” she asks. 

Abby pauses but quickly nods. “Nothing a few stitches couldn’t handle.” 

Her chest eases and Clarke breathes out deeply. “Good, that’s good.”

Abby looks like she wants to say something, even opens her mouth, but closes it so her lips curve into a small smile. “I underestimated him.”

Clarke nods absently, still processing the information. “You underestimated all of us.”

“I won’t anymore.” 

Abby winds the rag around her hands and disappears into the med-bay, but Clarke waits a moment before following, takes a few seconds to soak in the sound of children’s laughter.

 

* * *

 

Raven’s there when Clarke returns to her quarters. 

She’s sleeping in the Ark now and there’s a table and two chairs, but Raven paces restlessly. She looks exhausted, dark circles under her eyes and her nails bitten to the quick. When Clarke opens the door, she looks defeated rather than feral.

“Hey,” Clarke says, slowly closes the door and moves towards a chair. There are no guns in the room, but she has a knife in her boot. She watches Raven cautiously as she takes the other seat.

“We need to talk.”

Clarke nods and Raven crosses the room, slumps into her chair. “What would you have done if it was me?”

There are bruises up and down Raven’s bare arms and it takes a minute for Clarke to put it together. Raven, they blamed Raven for Mira’s crime. “You didn’t do it.”

“But what if I did?” Raven’s eyes are like bleeding bruises as she stares at Clarke, her face a living portrait of grief. She loved Finn with all her heart and Clarke took him away. The least she can offer is the truth.

“We would have fought for you.”

“Killed for me?”

“I don’t know.” Clarke thinks she would have tried to save her friend, but not at the expense of Lexa’s life. 

“I’m glad.”

Clarke’s head snaps up, and Raven’s face has changed. Her eyes are dark, burning coals. “He killed eighteen people. I loved a boy who killed eighteen people.” She pauses and her mouth flattens into a thin, pained line. “I loved a boy and he loved you. _Killed_ for you.”

“I never asked for it,” Clarke says softly. “Whatever he became, it wasn’t Finn. He wasn’t the boy you loved.”

“But he loved you.” There’s no question in Raven’s voice, just unrelenting bitterness. “He loved you and now he’s dead. He’s dead because of me.”

“He’s dead because of what he did.” 

Suddenly everything changes and the anger disappears from Raven’s face. Tears pool in her eyes and drip down her cheeks and she gasps for breath. “I’m the Spacewalker,” she wheezes. “I was over eighteen. I would have been floated, so he took my place.” She grasps Clarke’s hand and stares at her with stricken eyes. “It’s all on me.”

Again, it clicks. Raven’s fierce devotion and inability to let go, the agony in her eyes when Clarke stuck her knife between Finn’s ribs. Clarke knows what it means to carry that weight. “It’s not your fault,” Clarke says firmly as Raven shakes her head. “He might have come here because of you, but his actions are his own.” She pauses, sucks in a deep, aching breath. “Neither of us made him pick up that gun.” 

“He was all I had.”

Clarke shakes her head, reaches across the table to brush the tears from Raven’s cheeks. “You have me and my mom, Bellamy and Octavia.” She smiles a little wickedly. “If you’d let him, you could have Wick too.” Raven swats at Clarke’s shoulder. “When we get our people back, we’ll have our family again.” She smiles wider, realizes the truth in her words. It’s not what the ground has taken but what it’s given them that matters. “We’ll have each other.”

Raven’s smile is watery, but it’s real. “Jasper said the same thing once.”

“Jasper’s an idiot half the time, but sometimes he’s right.”

Raven wipes away the remaining tears and when she looks up it’s almost the girl that Clarke remembers. “What next?”

Clarke meets Raven’s eyes, shares the dream she holds in her heart. “We end this war.”

 

* * *

 

They try again the night before they leave.

It’s a smaller celebration, in the field outside Camp Jaha’s gate, and each side brings its own refreshments. Still, there are drums and harps and food and drink, and Clarke thinks it’s the closest they’ll get to a picnic. For the most part, everyone gets along, and Mira stays true to her word and remains out of sight. 

After they eat comes the exchange of gifts. Abby presents Lexa and her generals with knives made from the dropship. The significance isn’t lost on them, and while the Grounders exchange looks, they don’t refuse the weapons. In return, Lexa presents the Ark leadership with hand-carved masks. “To our alliance,” they all call and cheers fill the air, followed by the music, and general merriment, and it stops being about war and starts being about just living.

Later, Clarke examines her mask in the firelight. It’s some kind of bird with intricately carved feathers and she wonders if they mixed up her mask with Raven’s. “It’s a Phoenix,” Lexa says and takes a seat beside her. “According to myth, each time it dies, it's born anew.” She runs a finger over the feathered crest. “I understand you well, Clarke of the Sky People. It does not matter how many times you fall. You’ll always try again.”

Clarke extends her hand to Lexa. “It’s a lot easier when I have people to help me up.”

Lexa shakes firmly before turning her eyes to the various people gathered around the fire, and her gaze eventually catches on Bellamy. He’s holding his own mask in his hands, something vaguely canine, but it’s hard to see clearly from across the field. “Did you know that wolves mate for life?”

Clarke stops playing with the mask and and tries to make sense of what Lexa said. “What?”

Lexa stops watching the party and turns her gaze to Clarke. Her face is its usual blank mask, but her eyes are filled with yearning. “We chose his mask for a reason. I walk this path alone, but you…” She looks back at Bellamy, tall and golden in the firelight. “You have someone by your side.”

She pushes to her feet and moves towards Indra and the guard, leaving Clarke alone by the fire. She stares at Bellamy’s mask and thinks she sees something of its owner in the deep-set eyes and sharp teeth. Bellamy has always seen more than he lets on, fought for more than he claimed to believe in. For a moment, she’s back in that pit and he’s holding her wrist, the only thing separating her from a slow, painful death. He’d wanted her wristband and he’d saved her life instead. He’s done little but stand by her side since. 

Bellamy must feel her eyes on him, because he walks away from Monroe and Mel and makes his way through the crowd to her. “Wanna howl at the moon?” he asks and holds up his mask. When she shakes her head, he hunkers down at her side, and while he’s not touching her, it feels like he’s taking up all the space. 

“Did you know that wolves mate for life?” she asks, keenly aware of how dumb her question sounds, how awkward she’s acting, but he only puts down the mask and runs his thumb along her jaw.

“Some humans do too.”

“Yeah?” she can scarcely hear her own voice over the thud of her heartbeat. 

“Yeah,” he smiles against her mouth, the future shining in his eyes. “Some of us do.”

 

* * *

 

“Come with me?” she asks later that night. Bellamy’s just finished his guard shift and she’s waiting for him by the gate. 

They leave for the mountain in less than twelve hours, but first she has things to do. She swallows hard as he swings his rifle around, muscles bunching under his thin shirt. She also has things to do after.

“Where are we going?” he asks after they’ve slipped through Raven’s Gate and disappeared into the forest. 

“You’ll see,” she promises. It’s a short walk from Camp Jaha, although it took them nearly a day from the dropship.

“Wow,” Bellamy says as they break into a clearing filled with bright, shimmering blue. “How did you find this place?”

Clarke steps forward and buries her nose in the softness of the petals, feels the dew against her cheeks. “Finn showed me the first night on earth.” She holds a breath, waits for his reaction.

Bellamy runs his fingers through the flowers. He smiles at her, only understanding dancing in his eyes, and she remembers that she’s not the only one who’s changed. “I’m glad you brought me here.”

She digs into her pocket and pulls out the two-headed deer figurine. “He gave me this too,” she says and settles the statuette amongst the flowers. “Lexa said he’d have no memorial, but he was our friend. I want to give him this.”

“We can come here whenever you want,” Bellamy says and Clarke’s so very proud of the man he’s become, but there’s no reason to return to this place. 

She shakes her head. “I put my monster to rest. I won’t be letting it out again.”

He slings an arm around her shoulders, pulls her to him so his heart beats rapidly against hers. “I’m here, just in case.”

“Wolves,” she says and he laughs into her hair, but it’s true all the same. 

Their world is still a work in progress, a dream she’s molding into something shiny and new, but it’s easier knowing she isn’t in it alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s finished! Bit of writer’s block post holidays, but I’m overall happy with how this turned out. There was also no plan in the original outline for any romance, but it made sense here. So some Bellarke goodness after all. And for those interested, I think my next venture will be that “Sons of Anarchy” AU that no one asked for but I’ve wanted to write since the summer. Title courtesy of M83. Enjoy.

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: My way of working out mixed feelings on the mid-season finale. On the one hand, I'm glad the writers had the guts to kill Finn; on the other, I really dislike how all the characters justified his actions. He killed eighteen people. His guilt was never the issue, but rather how to deal with it. I'm both relieved that he's gone and annoyed that everyone tried to hand wave a massacre. So I wrote this, which makes me feel a bit better about the whole thing. Also, I have no issue with Mel, but she's about the only redshirt with a name, so she gets a cameo in this fic. I'll be tagging more characters as they join the party. Title courtesy of M83. Enjoy.


End file.
